The Promise
by dinkyrose
Summary: Sherlock runs away in the middle of a snowstorm and John will tear his world apart to bring him back home. (Teenlock AU)


PART ONE

"Don't be too long John, I want you back by four"

"Okay mum, we'll just be down at the park" John called, as he took the long red lead down from the hook by the back door. He bent down, fumbling to clip it to the matching red collar of an extremely enthusiastic Golden Labrador.

"Keep still girl" he spluttered as four doggy feet skittered and skidded against the hard tiled floor and a rough wet tongue licked a slobbery trail all over his forearms. At least there was someone who was always pleased to see him no matter what. These Sunday afternoons were his favourite time, spending long lazy hours in the park, tossing sticks and playing fetch, when he could forget that they had no money to decorate his new room and that all his friends were sixty miles away living a life that John Watson was no longer a part of.

The late summer air felt warm against his skin as he walked down the long row of terraced houses, right arm extended as the dog pulled and tugged in her eagerness to reach their destination, to run, to jump, to play, tail wagging constantly.

John fished around in his pocket for the battered old tennis ball he always brought, and tossed it once, twice in his hand as they crossed the street and pushed through the wrought iron gate leading into the park. There didn't appear to be many dogs around today so he unclipped the leash and then drew his arm back and threw the old ball with as much strength as he could put behind it. Dawn shot off, in hot pursuit while John ambled slowly along behind her, keeping the rapidly retreating golden flash in sight.

Every single Sunday they played the same game, and every single time, within minutes, a slobbery soggy yellow ball would drop into his lap as he lay back on the grass and stared up into the wide blue sky. He settled back and folded his arms behind his head. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Fifteen. Where the hell had she got to? He raised his head again. There she was, fifty yards off bouncing around with another dog, a bright red Irish Setter. John sighed and got up, best to go fetch her now before she became a bloody nuisance, not everyone appreciated an addition to their Sunday afternoon dog walk and Dawn could be annoyingly persistent. He heard a sharp whistle from a figure sitting on the grass nearby and watched as both dogs bounded over, jumping all over and around a small skinny boy. Seriously Dawn had no fucking manners, a proper little attention-seeking doggy chav.

John braced himself as he jogged over to them, "Sorry about my dog, I can't seem to get her to stop jumping up"

A pair of ice blue eyes stared up at him from his position, flat on his back on the grass "Why ever would you want to stop her? Total obedience is rather overrated, and shouldn't they be allowed to enjoy themselves too?"

"Er, I guess so" John flopped down beside him and was immediately beset by wagging tails and hot, smelly dog breath as the two new playmates discovered another human to thoroughly irritate.

The boy stuck out his right hand.

"What _are_ you doing?" John stifled a giggle, because really the boy could not have been any older than eleven or twelve and surely he couldn't seriously think it was normal for two kids to shake hands? The bubble of mirth soon drifted away as he caught the look of hurt and embarrassment on the other boys face and lurching sideways he gripped the warm dry palm and pumped their joined hands up and down.

"Pleased to meet you, I'm John" the boy smiled and then laughed, soft and melodious. It made his eyes sparkle and gave him cute little dimples in each of his cheeks.

" I'm Sherlock, and the ill-mannered dog over there is Redbeard and we were supposed to be at the other side of the park by now, until we were side tracked by this beautiful girl" he paused to scratch behind Dawn's ears, which earned him a sticky, doggy kiss on the nose.

"She's called Dawn, my mum said it's cause she's the same colour as the early morning sun" John blushed, because he hadn't really meant to tell him that and when you put it like that, out loud it did sound a bit ridiculous.

Sherlock just nodded. "He's just red, and the hair under his chin looks a bit like a beard, what you said sounded much better….do you want to be friends?"

No-one had ever just come out and asked him like that and when you added it together with the hand-shaking thing and the posh, plummy voice, Sherlock struck him as a very odd kid, and the way he was dressed too – like he'd just been to a wedding or some sort of posh do, trousers, not jeans and a shirt with the sleeves carefully folded back to just above the elbows. John glanced down at his frayed jeans and dirty, scuffed trainers and back up to Sherlock's open, hopeful face and felt something like determined pride swelling in his chest. His first new friend at the new house, maybe they could bike to school together and have sleepovers and stuff.

"Yeah…I'd like that"

An harassed looking woman, mid-fifties, in a long floral frock came bustling along the path that stretched around the perimeter of the duck pond, "Oh thank goodness, I wondered where on earth you had got to…do come along now Sherlock"

"Your mum?" John asked, knowing how totally humiliating this was as Sherlock turned beet red and stood up, brushing dry grass off his arse.

"No, Nanny" he mumbled, not meeting John's eye as he clipped an expensive brown leather lead to Redbeard and hovered awkwardly, torn between obeying the call and staying here with his new friend.

John stirred "I have to be getting back too, but I'll be here same time next week if you want to hang out again…."

"You might…or you might not" he shrugged, his snub little nose in the air as he turned, but not quite fast enough that John didn't catch the delighted smile the he couldn't quite conceal.

"Yeah right…later Sherlock", he smiled and waved as the boy bent down to give Dawn a final pat on the head before he turned to walk back down the path.

And so it continued. Every Sunday they met in the park, sometimes just sitting on the grass and talking about nothing in particular, or throwing sticks for the two dogs. It had soon become clear on the first day of high school that Sherlock would not be joining him there, but that didn't matter, because he preferred to keep this as something _other_ , something special, just between the two of them.

"What do you want to be when you grow up?" John asked him one afternoon as they destroyed the neat piles of fallen leaves that had been gathered by the park –keeper, jumping and laughing, throwing huge handfuls at each other.

"A pirate" Sherlock shouted, picking up two long sticks and throwing one to John "Now walk the plank you lily-livered land lubber" he said, in his best Long John Silver voice while poking John in the stomach. "Never, you scurvy cur" John swiped at Sherlock with his stick, and they parried back and forth, the wood clacking together, until Sherlock caught John off guard, and his stick went sailing in wide arc. It bounced off a tree-trunk and disappeared into a spiky bramble bush. "Bollock's, you win Sherlock"

He folded his jacket up in a bundle and gingerly sat down. It would be a while before the cold registered because, right now they were both sweating buckets.

"What about you then John?"

"Oh, a doctor I think, if I do well at school, or maybe a soldier, I haven't made my mind up but I'm only thirteen so there's loads of time yet….bit boring, your idea is so much cooler".

The weeks turned to months and still every Sunday they met up, except the long summer break which Sherlock would spend with his grandparents in France, only returning for the last weekend before school began. Sherlock never talked about his other friends, or school (John knew it was the posh private day school on Lancaster road), or even his family, but encouraged John to spill every detail of his life, stopping him from time to time to make 'deductions' he called them, about classmates and his mum and Harry which usually turned out to be spookily accurate, like magic or something.

"Yer a wizard Harry" John said one afternoon in his best Hagrid impersonation, and Sherlock just frowned at him and said "John, what on earth are you talking about?".

The week after school started John and Dawn headed eagerly for the park, waiting by 'their' tree, a knarled old oak to the west of the duck pond. They waited for three solid hours, until well past four, even knowing his mum would be furious, because Sunday night was bingo night with Aunty Dot and she liked to get the tea on early so she could get ready before Antique's Roadshow. At a quarter to five they gave up and went home. Eight weeks passed by just the same, no Redbeard and no Sherlock and the world grew just that bit greyer every day. Sunday afternoons were no longer a source of eager anticipation, instead, John would spend the whole morning with a twisting knot of anxiety in his stomach and no appetite, pushing his roast dinner absentmindedly around on his plate.

By December he had given up all hope. Maybe Sherlock had moved away, or changed school's or just didn't want to be his friend anymore, whatever the reason John felt like shit and it hurt, more than he believed that it should for some kid he only ever saw for a couple of hours, once a week on a Sunday. Dawn was disappointed too, looking at him hopefully every single time with eyes that were clearly saying 'Where's my Redbeard? Where's your Sherlock?"

John stared out of his bedroom window, the weather was awful today, wind howling like a banshee, lifting the tiles on the roof, and rain pissing down in fat heavy drops. "Not today girl" he said, absently stroking the top of Dawn's head. It was just as well, because he didn't actually enjoy the park if Sherlock wasn't going to be there. He switched on his tv and settled back against the headboard of his bed with a can of Coke and half a bag of salted popcorn left over from the night before, determined to ignore the Maths assignment that was due in tomorrow.

A knock at the door. John ignored that too.

"John, could you get that, I'm on the phone" Mum shouted up the stairs.

"Where's Harry?"

"Sleepover, not back yet…just do as you're told John".

He grouched and grumbled down the stairs, practising his 'fuck off' face for whoever had dared to interrupt his epic Sunday sulk. He undid the latch and angrily wrenched open the door.

"Jesus Christ Sherlock"

Sherlock stood on the front doorstep, soaked through to the bone in his grey wool coat and shuddering violently against the cold, his face a picture of utter pain and misery as he clutched a brown leather collar to his skinny little chest.

"I'm sorry John"

John grabbed his arm and dragged him inside the house, where he dripped forlornly on the hall carpet, not even registering that Sherlock had never, in two years, been to his house before.

"Oh Sherlock….come on" John didn't ask and Sherlock didn't tell, he just followed along wordlessly, allowing John to shepherd him through the house and up the stairs. John pushed him gently into the bathroom and awkwardly began to fumble with his friends' saturated clothes, stripping them off and leaving them in a soggy pile on the floor. John darted back into his bedroom and picked and old blue t-shirt and a pair of tracksuit bottoms from his dresser drawer, passing them to him through the half-closed bathroom door.

Sherlock hovered uncertainly in the doorway of John's bedroom dressed in a top that swamped his skinny frame and pants that showed three inches of bare ankle.

"Come here" John beckoned him over. Sherlock lurched forward like a puppet with the strings cut, and pushed him back until his knees hit the mattress. John sat down heavily and shuffled back, settling himself against the headboard again with a stack of pillows to cushion his head. Sherlock climbed up beside him and curled around the side of his body like a cat, burrowing his face into John's wool clad stomach to hide his red-rimmed eyes. They sat like that for hours, until the light faded and the rain finally stopped, the material of John's jumper damp against his skin and stretched beyond repair from Sherlock's iron grip. John stroked the curls back from his face as Sherlock fell into a fitfull doze, breath hitching just like Harry's used to, when she was a baby and cried herself to sleep after some massive tantrum.

"Promise you won't ever leave me John" he jumped slightly at the sound of Sherlock's voice, so raw and husky with emotion, and knew right then that he would never refuse him anything, not now, not ever.

"I promise Sherlock".

THREE YEARS LATER

"Will you just leave me _the fuck alone_ John!" Sherlock stomped away from him down the corridor, hood pulled up over his head in an attempt to disguise the cigarette that dangled between his lips.

John pushed against the flow of people, every single one of whom, annoyingly, were heading in the opposite direction. It was fucking annoying how that skinny twat just sidled right through them.

"You're the one that turned up here…I didn't ask you to come, so will you for god's sake just tell me what's wrong?" he was panting slightly with the effort it had taken to catch up and trying to ignore the curious glances and knowing smirks heading in his direction. Seriously, he might as well have put a neon sign above his head that said 'John Watson is shagging this bloke'. Not that he was, because he wasn't, it was just a day in the life of a typical high school rumour mill, and to an onlooker this did look suspiciously like some sort of lover's tiff, especially since Sherlock didn't even go here.

The bell rang and the corridor swiftly emptied out, so he pushed Sherlock into the nearest boy's bathroom and pulled his bloody annoying chavvy hood down. The posh young boy in trousers and designer shirts had disappeared a long time ago.

"Jesus Christ…who was it this time?" because really, this was nothing new and told John everything he needed to know about why Sherlock was currently neither in uniform nor at school.

Sherlock sniffed and flinched away from John's probing fingers, huffing in irritation as John grasped his chin anyway and tilted his face from side to side, taking in the full technicolour horror of a bust lip and black eye. This was nothing new either. Nearly every week after Redbeard, since they were thirteen years old, Sherlock had turned up on John's doorstep unannounced with some newly acquired injury and they had long ago given up the pretence that he acquired them by accident. John would just usher him in and take him upstairs to his room where Sherlock would perch on the edge of the bed while John played doctor with the contents of the bathroom medicine cabinet, cleaning and swabbing and patching him up. Then Sherlock liked to curl around him while they watched crap movies, and sometimes they would both fall asleep like that. He had never actually turned up in the middle of a school day before.

"I'll take you home"

"No!"

"What the fuck Sherlock, I can't patch you up here, just give me a minute and I'll get my stuff"

"Is your mother home?"

"It's Tuesday, so yeah, probably"

"Then no"

"Oh for god's sake Sherlock!"

In all the time they had been friends, Sherlock and his mother had never gotten along. She thought he was strange and unnerving, probably because Sherlock had absolutely no qualms in pointing out the various faults and bad habits of whoever her current boyfriend was and pointed out quite loudly, in front of the neighbours , that for a woman of her height and weight she consumed way over the average recommended units per week of alcohol. Later, his mother found other more unpalatable excuses not to have him round, that went way beyond 'I don't like him', straying into such territory as 'he's not like us, too posh, rude little arsehole, weird compared to your other friends' to the absolute clincher 'I don't want him upstairs in your room John'. Yeah, right, you would have to be a brain-dead idiot not to know what that was about. So Sherlock was gay, so fucking what. It obviously didn't matter to her that the kid was getting the shit kicked out of him at school week-in, week-out.

John made it back from the lockers in less than two minutes, but it still wasn't fast enough. The bathroom was empty, Sherlock had already bolted and gone.

God, what a bloody annoying little tosser, John thought as he thumped his hand against the wall in frustration.

"Did you see a tall kid, hood up, cigarette in his mouth…can only have been a couple of minutes ago?" he called to a scruffy looking kid who looked vaguely familiar, Bobby or Ben or something similar carrying a battered old guitar slung over one shoulder.

"It's Billy" the boy supplied, " And if you mean Sherlock, yeah I saw him, don't worry I can keep an eye on him if you want"

"How do you know him?" It wasn't exactly comforting that some boy he had never spoken to before seemed aware that Sherlock, his best friend, his everything, needed looking out for.

"He hangs round with us from time to time…you know…when he needs something, when he's had enough"

Shit, John did know. It was one of the only things he and Sherlock had almost come to blows themselves over – Sherlock's unsavoury recreational drugs habit, something which he had thought was now under control. Apparently not. He ran his hands down over his face in frustration but when he looked up to ask where this meeting place was, something he couldn't bare to believe he didn't already know, Billy had already gone.

"No John, you're staying in tonight to watch your sister… presents don't buy themselves and I'm back at work again tomorrow"

"Can't you just go at the weekend?"

"No, it'll be far too busy on the weekend before Christmas…Malcolm's here to pick me up…sorry love" she gave him a half-hearted peck on the cheek as she rushed out the door in a cloud of hairspray and perfume. Christmas shopping my arse, he thought, more like Christmas shagging after a cheap bottle of wine at Malcom's sad bachelor pad. He sighed, knowing it could be a hell of a lot worse, at least this one had a job and a car, and bonus, he wasn't another homophobic arsehole, even siding with John after the last time he and mum had had 'the talk' about Sherlock staying over in his room.

John's fingers twitched compulsively, itching to punch out another text asking where on earth the stupid git was, but knowing after number forty seven, he was definitely not going to get an answer.

"It's okay, I won't tell mum if you want to sneak out and look for him" Harry peered at him over the top of the latest copy of Kerrang, with eyes made wide by copious amounts of black kohl eyeliner.

He hesitated. It was tempting, but he didn't have any idea where to look and for all he knew, Sherlock could just be having an epic sulk in his room at home. That was also a weekly occurrence. Maybe it would be better to risk the wrath of Sherlock and check in first with Mycroft, his older brother. He was a Phd student at Cambridge and should be home for the Christmas break by now.

"John…look John, I think that's Sherlock"

Harry pointed excitedly at a tall, thin figure hovering in the shadows behind the tree in the back garden. Dawn lay calmly in her basket, her tail thumping excitedly against the kitchen floor. If it was stranger she would have been barking and jumping around, not waiting for her favourite person in the world to come inside and give her a belly rub.

He had his long grey coat on now, on top of the hoody and jeans, which meant that at some point he had gone home and then left again. The bruises looked even worse under the harsh fluorescent lights as John opened the back door and ushered him into the kitchen.

"It's okay, she's not here, so come in" John grabbed his arm and pulled him over the threshold. His coat was damp and freezing, flecked with fat flakes of newly fallen snow.

Sherlock's eyes skittered around the room nervously and John was drawn closer, torn between hugging him so tightly he couldn't breathe and checking on his pulse rate and pupil dilation.

"Do you want something to eat Sherlock? Mum's made enough casserole to feed an army and there's loads left", Harry blurted out before John had the chance to shout at him about buggering off without telling him where the hell he was going.

Sherlock nodded and Harry set a bowl on the breakfast bar in front of him, ladling in a generous amount of the hot filling stew. John's heart sank. It was a measure of how bad things must be that Sherlock attacked the bowl like a ravenous wolf, he was never hungry and always shrugged off John's attempts to get him to eat more, unless it was a case of the munchies of course. Oh god, he had to ask.

"Are you high Sherlock?"

"Fuck off John"

"Is that a no?"

"It's a mind your own business"

"For god's sake Sherlock, _you are_ my business" he raised his voice to an angry hiss, banging his fist on the counter and making Sherlock's dish rattle, "You're pushing me away, but yet you're still coming round here, just tell me what's wrong and let me help"

They both turned around at the sound of a key scraping in the front door "You'll never believe this, I only went and forgot my purse" his mother burst back in with Malcolm, pulling up sharply at the sight of Sherlock sitting at the table and eating food in her kitchen.

"Ah, Sherlock…Hello dear, isn't it a bit late for you to be coming round?" she said in a faux-cheerful voice, "John, can a have a word in the living room…now?" she pursed her lips as she motioned him and Harry out of the room.

"Harry, could you go to your room now?" she ignored the very vocal protests from his sister and closed the kitchen door, screening them all from Sherlock's view. "What on earth is he doing here at this time of night John?"

"Open your eyes…can't you see he's been hurt mum, or don't you give a damn about him?"

"Steady on, show your mother a little respect John"

"With _respect_ Malcolm, this has fuck all to do with you, and this wouldn't even be up for discussion if it was Bill or Mike Stamford….tell me why _is_ that mum?"

He mother shifted uncomfortably and glanced nervously at Malcolm, hoping he at least would back her up. "We should leave this for his parents to deal with… whatever it is that's wrong, it's not our place John"

"Bollocks, the fact that he's openly gay makes you uncomfortable…what…do you worry he has his hand in my pants every time we're left alone?"

"John! For goodness sake" his mother blustered, her obvious embarrassment at his accusation telling him all he needed to know.

"What harm would it do Angela, to let the lad stay the night, just ring his parents and tell them I'll drop him off first thing in the morning, how does that sound?"

John smiled gratefully at Malcolm, at least one adult in the house was talking some sense.

"I'm sorry Malcolm" he mother interrupted, "letting the boy stay here is not the answer"

John felt the rising tide of anger, bubbling within his chest. How dare she talk about Sherlock like that, address him as 'that boy' when they had been in each other's pockets for the last five years.

"Then what is the answer mum?" he shouted, "Will you tell me that?

"Oh for god's sake son, grow up" he mother yelled back, "You can't be responsible for the whole world"

"I'm not trying to be, can't you see that?...But… why can't you understand how much I care about Sherlock?"

The back door closed with a slam which made them both jump. John didn't need to go back to the kitchen to see what had happened, they hadn't exactly been trying to keep their voices down. He remembered too late that Sherlock hated hearing arguments, another thing that had made him curl up against John and hide his face in the folds of his jumpers. It was the noise, he had said, it jarred against his ears and made his head feel all 'swirly and weird'.

His phone vibrated once against his hip.

 ** _Don't worry, I'm fine – taking a cab home. Sorry – SH_**

Sherlock flipped his collar up against the bitter, biting wind, eyes screwed almost shut to keep out the icy snowflakes as he directed his footsteps back towards the main street in town. Home was not an option tonight. 'That's it' his father had said 'I won't have you upsetting your mother anymore, how dare you bring drugs into this house, and the fighting Sherlock…if this is the lifestyle you choose after all we have given you then…'

He hadn't waited to hear the end of that sentence, that was enough. But he had to see John, like a compulsion, since the day they had met John had been his anchor, his safe place, but somehow he just couldn't bring himself to admit to him what a mess he had made of everything. And it was getting too hard to be around him when all he wanted to do was lie on top of him and kiss him and do various other things if John would let him. It was quite ironic really, that the only secret between them was that Sherlock had fallen totally and irrevocably, in love with him. But John, John was perfect and deserved so much more than Sherlock could give him right now.

He sat on a bench in front of an all-night Tesco and shoved his hands between his legs to keep them warm, while he tried to think of a place where he could go and crash for the night. Someone pulled into the carpark beside him and he automatically put his head down, his heart slamming hard against his chest as the driver's side window wound down.

"Hey, It's Sherlock, right? John Watson's mate?"

He looked up at the sound of a young, gruff voice. Graham, or Greg or something, wasn't it? He was in his final year at John's school, a football player, had aspirations to join the police force (would be a reasonably intelligent addition – should do well), but not averse to bending the rules or turning a blind eye from time to time.

Sherlock lifted his chin and gave Greg a brief nod of affirmation. Not a rapist or a serial killer, then.

"You need a lift somewhere? Only, you'll look like frosty the snowman soon if you don't get the hell out of this blizzard"

Sherlock jumped down off the bench and headed round the car to the passenger side door, climbing gratefully into the warm, snug interior breathing in the smell of petrol and old leather.

Greg looked at him thoughtfully, his budding policeman's eye missed nothing as it took in the barely concealed shadow and the dark, crusted cut on his mouth.

"Where to then, Sherlock?"

He shrugged.

"You need somewhere to stay for the night? I know a place, I'll take you there if you like, but it's no five star accommodation"

"That's fine" he managed, "just as long as I'll still be alive by morning"

"That bad huh? You know, my Dad used to hit me sometimes, when he was tired, or pissed or just plain couldn't stand the sight of me or my little brother"

"Really? What did you do?"

"Nothing", Greg laughed hollowly, "well, when I say nothing…the last time was a couple of years ago, but I threw a chair at him and broke his jaw…he's too scared to come near me now"

"Fuck…that's awful…but it's not my Dad…well he's not the one who did this, anyway" he brushed his fingertips nervously over the injured side of his face, "I just can't face going home tonight…need some space"

"No probs, there's an empty warehouse on Sackville Street, down by the docks, loads of people, mostly kids, stay there when the weather is shit like tonight, I've stayed there myself a few times. It's dry at least, still not very fucking warm though"

"It'll do…thanks"

Greg nodded and turned on the engine and the battered old car sprung to life. He paused and turned to look at Sherlock again.

"Look kid, I know it's none of my business…but I thought you sort of had…a thing…with John, couldn't he help you out?"

"You're right, it is none of your business" was the only response he got as Sherlock turned his head away to look out of the window, his own ghostly face stared back at him as he brushed angrily at one hot, stray tear that could've been mistaken for a bead of condensation running down the glass, at least he hoped that was what Greg thought.

John struggled through school the next day, his mind elsewhere, going over that ridiculous argument with his mother in his head, the one that had made Sherlock run away again. There had been no more word last night, and it would only be the catalyst for another big blow-up if Sherlock felt John was coddling him. You always had to tread so carefully with him. He would cling to John like a limpet sometimes, covering him like a human blanket on the bed, while at other times he was like a feral cat, spitting and snarling if you took one false step into his closely guarded territory.

It was a relief to hear the final bell at half past three. It didn't matter if Sherlock lashed out, John just needed to see him and make sure that he was alright, somewhere safe, in his own home hopefully, it was hard to say for sure when the idiot refused to answer his phone. Any more texts and he could be officially classed as a stalker.

John hung around in the corridor, waiting for his next door neighbour, Mike. He was coming over for tea tonight because his mum and dad were off visiting some random relative and Mike hadn't wanted to go with them. Trust him to be late though, when John was desperate to get home. The door to the music room stood open and the soft melodic thrumming of guitar music filled the air. That kid, Billy, maybe he had some idea where Sherlock had gone last night. He walked towards the open door, praying he would see the scruffy young boy sitting there.

It was. The music was beautiful and haunting, a contrast to his hard-edged appearance, fingers drifting lovingly over the strings, the melodies blending seamlessly together. He was singing too, soft and low, untrained but perfect and pure, the type of sound that raises the hairs on the back of your neck and makes your eyes fill up for no apparent reason. John waited patiently for him to finish, not wanting to interrupt.

"That was amazing Billy"

"Nah, just something I've been playing around with, it's not finished yet"

"Erm, I was wondering…"

"Your friend Sherlock"

"Yeah, have you seen him? I mean, last night that is, I don't know if he got home okay and I'm a bit worried to be honest" he shifted nervously from foot to foot.

Billy jumped down from the table and opened his battered old guitar case, laying the instrument inside with infinite care, he lifted his head to look at John with undisguised curiosity, as if gauging whether he could trust him. His shoulders relaxed as he stood up, ready to leave.

"He's fine, … you don't have to worry, I've got his back" he said with a smile as he brushed past John and made his way out into the crowded corridor.

"But wait" John turned to go after him "You never actually told me where….he was" his voice trailed off uncertainly, looking left and right, searching for the distinctive guitar case and shabby clothes in amongst the smart school uniforms. He huffed in frustration and whirled around, slamming straight into the solid form of Greg Lestrade.

"Whoa there John…you look strung out there mate, has it got anything to do with Sherlock by any chance?"

"What? How did you….have you seen him?"

"Yep, took him to a place I know of, last night. I offered to take him home, but he wasn't having any of it"

God knows what his face was doing at that moment but Greg pulled him over to the side of the corridor and bent closer, brow furrowed with genuine concern.

"Look, I got the impression you two had had words last night, I did ask why he didn't just call you, but he seems like a stubborn little shit" John snorted in agreement and Greg cracked a grin "I can take you there now if you like, so you can see for yourself"

John was sitting in Greg's car, a mile away, heading out of the town towards the dock's before he remembered that Mike would probably be waiting for him by now. He hoped he had the common sense to just walk to John's house on his own, because this was far more important.

With the onset of nightfall the inside of the warehouse was already impenetrably dark, and the only light sources came from candles and the odd improvised fire set in old battered metal containers.

Groups of people, mostly kids, stood huddled around the golden flames for warmth, wrapped in every layer of clothing that they owned. John felt so conspicuous in his neat school uniform and warm padded parks with the fur-lined hood. It felt like he was mocking them just by being here. But Sherlock, he was here somewhere too and he wouldn't leave until he had at least spoken to him, even if it was just to hear Sherlock telling him to fuck off again.

"He could be anywhere in here", Greg said, "There are loads of little rooms upstairs where people can crash out, sleep"

"Spill it Greg, what else"

"Some people…not as many as you seem to think, take drugs"

John didn't stay to listen to another damn word he just headed blindly towards the nearest set of stairs, the only destination he had in mind, was up, as fast as humanly possible. The rooms on the first floor revealed nothing, three were empty and the others were occupied by much older kids who glared at John accusingly. He didn't hang around to ask if they had seen a tall, pale, skinny kid with a smart mouth and a bad attitude. The soft familiar strains of Billy's melodic music drifted down from the floor above, so he crept up the stairs, this time, gut instinct telling him that he was finally on the right track.

The only light in the small dingy space came from a yellowing candle set on an old, cracked china plate. Sherlock was curled on an old sagging mattress, back to the open door with a fluffy wool jumper folded as a makeshift pillow shoved beneath his head. One of John's, though god knows when he had nicked that one, it was one his favourites and he hadn't even missed it, although Sherlock had told him on more than one occasion that it made him look like a furry dwarf. The lying little bastard.

"For god's sake John I know that's you standing there, the way you breathe is so bloody annoying"

"Nice to see you too Sherlock"

Sherlock flipped over on the mattress and in one smooth movement stood up, using his extra height to full advantage, he loomed over John and pressed him back into the cold plaster wall.

"Go home John, you can't be here, I don't want you here, because let's face it, you don't belong"

"And neither do you, you stupid bloody idiot" John pressed a hand to his chest and pushed back, "Why can't you just go home Sherlock?"

"I can't talk about this, not with you anyway, so if you really want to help you can leave. Me. Alone" he punctuated the last three words with a deliberate stab to the chest with a bony forefinger.

"Not going to happen mate, we've never hidden a thing from each other in the five years we've been friends and I'm not about to start now"

Sherlock actually laughed, loud and slightly hysterically, "Shit John, I always told you your poker face was fucking awful"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Come back when you've worked it out" Sherlock waved him away with a flick of the wrist and flopped back down on the dirty mattress, facing away from him. Sulking again, angry at John for no reason at all that he could see.

"If you're not back by morning, I'm phoning your brother" he said as a childish last resort. Sherlock merely grunted in response.

The drive back was silent and tense. Greg just asked "No luck then?" and the only thing he could think of to say was "He'll come back when he's ready, not before, but thanks for taking me over anyway"

"Any time John"

And if he thought things couldn't get worse then he was wrong, his mother on the attack as soon as he walked in through the back door.

"Why the hell didn't you phone to say you were going to be late back, poor Mike turned up on his own, that's so ill-mannered John"

"I'm sorry okay? Can we not do this mum? I'm back now" he shucked off his wet coat and walked towards the hallway to hang it up, Sherlock still occupying all the available space in his mind.

"Well go through and keep Mike company, god knows your sister is precious little help in that department, I think she's surgically attached to that damn phone" she bustled back into the kitchen not realising how much it pissed him off that Mike was invited for dinner when she had been so rude and dismissive of Sherlock last night. But that wasn't Mike's fault, and he was John's friend too. He plastered on his best fake smile as he walked into the living room.

"Hey there Mike"

"Christ you look rough John"

"Yeah, well I didn't get much sleep last night", or any in fact, he couldn't quite muster the energy to add.

"Oh right, Harry told me Sherlock's done a runner again"

"I found him"

"Where?"

"This warehouse by the dock's, Sackville Street, there's loads of kids there Mike, you should have seen them, it was like something out of Charles Dicken's".

Mike just goggled at him in disbelief. He knew exactly how he felt, it was shameful not to even realise how lucky they were, just to be sitting here, where but for a simple twist of fate they might very well be there.

"Did you hear that Malcolm?" Angela Watson stood with her ear almost pressed against the kitchen wall, "That's where he's been, in some abandoned old warehouse".

"Calm down, John's a good kid, don't worry so much".

"Don't worry? Have you any idea what could've happened to him in a place like that?"

"He must have been looking for his friend, Sherlock wasn't it?"

"Oh god Malcolm, did we do the right thing, am I a terrible person?"

"No Ange, you're not, what you said last night made sense, but John may have had a point"

"What do you mean?"

"You do treat Sherlock differently from his other friends, I mean look at tonight…Mike"

"Oh god I am terrible person aren't I? It's just…he's so different…so…"

"Gay"

"Malcolm!"

"Just think about it Ange, what if it was Harry or John?"

Sherlock was someone's child and she had essentially thrown him to the wolves. She had done the wrong thing by him and if anything happened to that boy she knew she would never be able to forgive herself.

"Get your coat Malcolm, you're taking me to the police station… _now"_

The officer behind the front desk looked a weird combination of bored and harassed, resigned to the utter stupidity of these prime examples of humanity who were currently cluttering up his waiting room. Angela hovered uncertainly. How exactly did you report something like this, they knew where he was, so would it be classed as a missing person?

She opted for something bland and neutral.

"I would like to report a 'situation'" she cleared her throat, nervously and looked at the desk sergeant with an air of innocent expectation.

He sighed. This was going to be a bloody long night.

" A boy, a friend of my son has been sleeping in an abandoned warehouse"

"And can you tell me where that is?"

"By the dock's I think, Sackwell something…"

"Sackville Road…yes, we know about that place, I take it that it's in need of another clear out"

It wasn't a question, as he was muttering more to himself than to anyone else, inwardly groaning at the volume of complicated paperwork a police raid on an industrial premises would generate.

"So what happens now?" Angela asked, clearly not satisfied that they had any intention of actually following through and doing their damn job. But she seemed like a nice lady, so he decided to switch on the kindness and compassion, just this once.

"Well that depends you see…is he a runaway or a throwaway?"

"I beg your pardon?"

Obviously he had offended her naïve middle-class sensibilities. He tried again.

"Did he leave of his own accord, or was he…pushed out?"

"Oh god, what parent would do that?"

He gestured to the missing person poster's adorning the bulletin board, "More than you would ever believe…"

"It's Mrs Watson" she stared in disbelief. So many faces, good kids, normal kids from normal families, just like Sherlock and John.

He nodded. "You have a son, you said?"

"Yes, his name is John"

"Well you just keep him close Mrs Watson, he's lucky to have you".

The old policeman sighed. Time to call in the clean-up squad.

John heard the front door bang as his mother and Malcolm returned for wherever they had disappeared to an hour ago. He had already served up tea for himself, Harry and Mike, otherwise it would have been ruined. It took one look at his mother's face when she walked into the kitchen to work out where it was she had been to. He prayed that he was wrong.

"What the hell have you done?"

"Don't talk to me in that tone John"

"Fuck that, you've been to the police station haven't you?" her lack of protest was an answer in itself and John's heart sank. Sherlock would never trust him again. He stormed down the hall and pulled on his parka and a thick, knitted scarf.

"You can't go back to that place John "

"Are you really so blind? Why can't you see that that could just as easily be me?"

"No John, how could you say that, you're not like that"

" Like what? Not gay like Sherlock? Well I am, and I love him…. it's the truth and you know it mum"

He wrenched the door open and headed out into the freezing cold night. This was what Sherlock had wanted him to work out, to finally realise. This was why he was tormented at school, skiving off and fighting, both with other kids and hi own parents. Stupid, _stupid_. Why the hell had he been carrying this all around inside him, waiting for John to figure it out alone. Sherlock must have known all along how John really felt before he had even realised it himself.

He thumbed through his contacts for Greg Lestrade's number, no time to worry about whether he was doing the right thing, "It's John, any chance of a lift mate?"

When they got to the warehouse the entire place was empty and dark, no fires, no candles and definitely no people. Even most of the mattresses and pillows had gone. There had either been a tip-off or the police had gone through afterwards and cleared everything out, as a signal not to bother coming back again. But he had to go and check the rooms on the upper floor, feet turning automatically towards the old stairwell, thinking only of Sherlock.

A flashlight almost blinded him as it swept over his face from the top of the stairs.

"Just hold it there pal, you're coming with us".

"I have to go after him Malcolm"

"What's wrong now Angela, I go to the bathroom and come down to this?, I think half the street heard you love"

"I've had the most awful row with John, just stay here with Harry, I think I know where he's gone…please Malcolm".

This had all turned into such a godawful mess. Her own son and he didn't feel he could come to her, confide in her anymore. It was her own stupid fault, the way she had treated Sherlock, no the wonder John had kept this part of himself hidden for so long.

The early evening snowfall had quickly turned to slippery ice with coated the roads and pathways, making them truly treacherous. It was so damn cold, she thought, turning the heater up to full as she reduced her speed and turned the corner, left, towards town. You could die of exposure on a night like this, it happened every winter, there was always some local news story tucked away on one of the back pages, people walking home from nights out, sitting down for a rest and never getting up. She thought of Sherlock's skinny frame, not enough fat there to provide any sort of insulation, the cold would cut through that boy like a knife through butter.

John had left on foot so he couldn't have gone too far, she thought, pulling into a space on the highstreet, the paths still busy with late-night Christmas shoppers. She searched the crowds eagerly, looking for his thick green parka, the implications of what could happen if she didn't find them both tonight weighing heavily on her mind.

A skinny boy with a guitar almost collided with her as she turned the corner, moving off the main street, back towards the police station. A half-remembered conversation floated through her mind about John hearing some kid playing the most amazing song, and his face looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn't quite place where she had seen him before, a school concert seemed the most likely place. He glanced back over his shoulder once, before heading in the direction of All Saints church. With nothing else to go on it was worth a try, so she quickened her pace and followed.

"Hey there!...Excuse me, can a talk to you for just a minute?"

Twenty yards ahead the boy stopped, just beside the gate which led up to the pretty little church.

"You have questions?" he looked at her with wide, compassionate eyes, her distress now palpable, a visible entity like white puffs of freezing breath.

"Do you live out here, on the streets, in the cold?"

The boy sighed " I had a mother once, father too, a nice house, clean clothes, food on the table, all of that just like your son, but all it takes is the toss of a dice and…"

"There but for the grace of God go I" Angela finished, her breath catching in her throat. She wasn't a religious woman, but understood the lesson very well and John had understood it better still, this boy could be John and John could be him.

"Go ahead, ask me" the boy continued, drawing a small woollen hat from his pocket and jamming it down over his head.

"Why did you leave?"

"A row, with my parents, I can't even remember what for anymore, it was just one of those fights where it doesn't feel real….where it feels like the fight is having you…do you know what I mean?"

Oh god, yes she did, that was exactly it. She would give anything to take back those words she had said in the seconds before John had left.

"So, what else do you want to know?"

She swallowed painfully around the lump in her throat, hot tears stinging at the back of her eyelids, "How did you die?" she choked and the tears spilled over.

"I froze"

She squeezed her eyes tight shut and prayed to a deity she so desperately wanted to believe in "Please god, help me…help me find them".

When she opened her eyes the boy had gone.

The inside of the church was dry and warm. Sherlock had been angry at first and had tried to run, until he was cornered like a rat in a trap by three burly policemen. No-one was under arrest though, they had just had a tip-off that people were using it as a place to sleep rough when it was unsafe and under a Council Demolition Order. Forty-seven people were shepherded onto a waiting bus and transported back into town to a church-run soup kitchen. But Sherlock felt like a fraud, unlike so many of these people, he had a home to go back to and a John to look after him, to let him curl up beside him and run warm fingers through his tousled hair. The rest he could deal with, the horrible stuff at school, if only John were here. Sherlock wandered through the building, fingers trailing over wood and brass and stone, feeling the age and history of the building, hearing all the stories whispering along the isles and soaking into the darkly polished pews. He had an irrational urge to light a candle. For who though? John, always John. He walked to the front on feet which echoed much too loudly, even here he was spoiling the solitude with his clumsy, overbearing Sherlockness.

So what did you do now that the candle was lit, and set in its place amongst a plethora of identical flickering flames? Sit, and think, he supposed, count your blessings his grandmother would say. He wavered uncertainly, every breath seeming to falter in is chest which felt, tight and heavy, like each inhale and exhale took concentrated effort. The door creaked open behind him, but he didn't look round, just felt the icy gust of outside air which made the yellow flames before him dance and stutter casting sinister shadows around the alter.

A small cold hand pressed against his shoulder and he turned, an involuntary pirouette, to be swept into a tight, bone-crushing hug.

"Oh Sherlock" Mrs Watson was squeezing out what little remained of the air in his lungs, and thoroughly soaking the shoulder of his coat. It should have been annoying, awful, unbearable, but it wasn't any of those things, it never could be, because this was home and this was John and _almost_ everything he could ever need or want other than having the real thing here in his arms.

Mrs Watson pulled back and stepped away with a smile, her tearful gazed focused on the door which led down to the church basement. Sherlock turned, hardly daring to hope, but there he was, with a steaming mug of tea in each hand. Typical John, he knew Sherlock would ignore the nourishing broth and bread and so had brought him a hot beverage of indeterminate origin instead.

It was peaceful. Just sitting, sipping tea and gazing at the pretty panels of stained glass.

"Come home" John sighed as he leant his ruffled blond head on Sherlock's arm, fingers hovering uncertainly over his own then snatching up the hand not holding a mug and linking them together so hard he felt metacarpal scrape against metacarpal. Wonderful.

He could stay for the night, and his brother would come in the morning, Mrs Watson said on the drive home. That was after the lecture from a longsuffering policeman, and another from a social services busybody and only then was he allowed to leave, accompanied by a responsible adult. He could hear low voices in the kitchen, knowing full well what they were talking about. Mrs Watson wanted to make up the spare room, or put him on a camping bed in the living room, and John was pointing out, quite fairly, that Sherlock was practically family and why did she now want to treat him like a guest. It would take time, that was all, to adjust to the new dynamic that had always been hovering just below the surface. John won in the end, and Sherlock lay on him like a long, bony blanket until it became both hot and uncomfortable and John unceremoniously shoved him off, smothering his indignant protests with long, deep, desperate kisses that made his head spin and his heart pound. John stripped back every layer, undressing them both with infinite patience and care, while Sherlock burned, every inch of skin aflame with want, the need to feel and touch, and be touched. And so he did, mapping John's body, committing every glorious part to memory until the need took over, rocking into each other so gently at first, then rough and hot and frantic, like it would never be enough and as Sherlock writhed beneath him, John stifled their cries with the press of his beautiful, perfect mouth.

"Don't ever leave me again Sherlock"

"I promise John"


End file.
